


Treats

by Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell)



Series: Treats [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blow Jobs, Collar play, D/s, Dom!Hawke, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Hand Jobs, Hawke Shares his Toys, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Multi, New Triad, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Painplay, Past Relationship(s), Smut, Sub!Anders, Voyeurism, sub space, switch!Fenris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:23:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8138941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Nell/pseuds/Starla-Nell
Summary: In which kinky sex literally saves Thedas. For a little while, anyway.There is a bare scrap of angsty plot as an excuse to get these three in bed together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [erasergremlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erasergremlin/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Untitled-nsfw](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/231661) by cyanopsis. 



> Spoilerish hints about the end of DA:2.
> 
> I did a lot of research to make this fic work. Please keep in mind that Hawke doesn’t have the benefit of the internet or much (if any) community. More notes on this at the end. 
> 
> It starts a little dark and angsty, but sexy fun times are soon! 
> 
> Varric relates a quick story at the end. Reminder: Varric calls Fenris "Broody" and Anders "Blondie." Hawke is just Hawke.

Hawke holds out the short leather strap. “He’s getting worse, isn’t he?”

 

Anders glares. “I’m fine.”

 

“This formula you asked me to help with. The one to separate from Justice? It’s more dangerous than you’re saying. You’re desperate.” The metal buckle rattles.

 

“You _left_ me, Hawke.” Anders’ tone is accusatory. “You can’t sashay in here and expect me to put _that_ on again.”

 

Hawke sighs, hands dropping to his sides, and the buckle jangles.

 

“I left because you said it was dangerous to be with you, and I _believed_ you. That doesn’t mean I don’t still _care_.”

 

Anders glares daggers at him.

 

“What about Fenris?”

 

“Fenris might be there. We discussed it.”

 

“You asshole! You-you come to offer me this, and you are still carrying on with that templar-lover?”

 

“I don’t see it in terms of templars and mages. I see two people I love who need healing.”

 

“I don’t need healing. I’m the healer!”

 

“I know. But you need a break from your own mind.” The buckle rattles again. “This is the only thing that will get Justice to shut up for a while. I _don’t_ want you to risk too much.”

 

Anders’ eyebrows slide together and up for a moment. Hawke’s heart breaks, all over again. What else can he do? This is all he can offer. The formula must be dangerous. Why else is he hesitating?

 

Anders pulls up all his defenses, including anger.

 

“Get out.”

 

Hawke sets the collar on a nearby table.

 

“If that’s what you want.”

 

He leaves.

 

###

 

The _nerve_ of that man. As Hawke’s armored boots echo through Darktown, Anders picks up the leather collar to pitch it into the canal. But the weight in his hand is perfect. No, he couldn’t have. Could he? Anders holds it around his neck, without buckling. It’s the same collar he remembers: made for a mabari, raw and thick. A spot on the left side rasps against his neck. It is _exactly_ the same one, not something similar. Anders never mentioned that rough patch but always noticed it.

 

Hawke kept his collar. For three years. Why would he do that?

 

_I see two people I love…_

 

Anders yells and throws the collar as hard as he can against the wall.

 

###

 

_Now. Go now._

_Can I go through with this? Those people—_

_And how many of our brothers and sisters have died? How many more while you hesitate?_

_Justice, I can’t have this argument again._

_We have to do this. Now. Tonight._

_No. Let me sleep._

_What are you waiting for? Why do you delay justice for your brothers and sisters?_

_Shut up!_

###

 

Anders knocks on the door a second time. It’s late. Will anyone answer?

 

Will Hawke?

 

Anders almost bolts at the idea. Why? Hawke is why he's here. But what if—

 

The door opens before he can leave.

 

“Messere Anders!” Bodahn greets him. “Messere Hawke said you might be by. It’s good to see you again.” The dwarf is sincere; Anders realizes that he missed Bodahn, missed this house.

 

“Hey, Bodahn. Is Hawke here?”

 

“Come in. He’s in his chambers.”

 

Yes, Anders missed those, too.

 

###

 

“Fuck, Hawke, what you do to me.”

 

_Thunk thunk thunk._ “Messere Hawke? I’m sorry to disturb your rest, but you have a guest.”

 

“ _Shit.”_

 

“What? Hawke, no. You’re stopping? Now? You can’t make them wait five minutes?”

 

Hawke laughs at Fenris as he pulls on pants.

 

“You’d last longer than that, and you know it. And you’d never forgive me if you didn’t.”

 

“Well, I might eventually,” Fenris pouts.

 

“Just – hold on. I’ll explain in a second.” Hawke cracks the door and has a short conversation with Bodhan, then returns, every step charged with self-satisfaction.

 

“What’s going on, Hawke?”

 

Hawke grins. “I’ve told Bodhan not to interrupt our… _rest_ unless the guest is on a short list.” Hawke considers. “Though I assume he would if the house were burning down.”

 

Fenris rolls his eyes. “Hawke, you’re wandering.”

 

“Yes, well, those guests include Aveline, Meredith, Orsino—”

 

“Maker forbid. Isn’t he under house arrest?”

 

“All the more reason to hop to if he comes over! My point is, emergency issues. But you didn’t want me to wander. Anders is also on that list.”

 

Fenris is surprised: so he took Hawke up on his offer after all. “Does he know I’m here?”

 

Hawke is putting on a good shirt. “I mentioned you could be involved. We need to talk to him, and not in the bedroom. But it’s not hypothetical anymore: he’s here. I need you to tell me whether you’re _really_ okay with this.”

 

Fenris considers, remembers the discussion a few days ago. “This helps him cope with his demon? So it doesn’t get out of control?”

 

“Spirit. Justice. Yes. It gives him a break from a spirit’s natural one-track mind.” Hawke finishes the last few buttons and pulls on his lighter boots.

 

“Hmm.” Fenris considers further.  “Anders will be collared?”

 

“He will be my pet, yes.”

 

Fenris smirks. “Not mine?”

 

Hawke smiles back, strokes Fenris’ hair. “I’ll share, if you like.”

 

If he’s perfectly honest with himself, Anders submitting to either of them as Hawke had described would be hot. “I will try it.”

 

“Good man.” Hawke tosses Fenris his clothes and heads out the door. “You should get dressed, too. Less distracting. Come down when you’re ready.”

 

Fenris shrugs.

 

“All right.”

 

This might be worth the interruption after all.

 

###

 

This room contains three fashionable, sturdy, and comfortable chairs, widely spaced around a low table. The side closest to the fireplace is open. Anders alternatively paces and stares into the fireplace, trying to ignore the inner voice urging him to the Chantry, soon, now. Orana brings in a bottle of wine and three glasses. Three. As she opens the wine, Anders finds a set of armor in the corner. Fenris is here. Anders had feared this possibility: to confront him like this... His replacement. He knows he should sit, but he cannot hold still.

 

Hawke saunters into the room, leather boots echoing against stone. He’s devastating in his at-home attire. Anders never sees him like this anymore: it’s always armor these days. But that’s not what catches his breath. Hawke is wearing his seductive smile. So much of what Anders wants is represented by that smile. _Peace. Love. Safety. Happiness._

 

The burning surge in his belly, and below, reminds him that base desires pulled him here, too.

 

Only a few people in Kirkwall know the Champion has two voices. The public voice is loud, sarcastic, and laughs easily. The one Hawke uses now is low, smooth, and quiet, yet tense and expectant.

 

“Anders. I’m glad you’re here.”

 

Anders doesn’t want to say Hawke was right, or how much he _needs_ this. He takes out Hawke’s collar.

 

“Hawke, I—”

 

Hawke holds up a hand to stall him.

 

“Fenris is coming down, too. We all should talk.”

 

Anders’ stomach sickens. “Is Fenris— does he—” Anders lifts the collar. _Does he have one like this?_

 

Hawke steps too close and takes the collar from Anders. He grips the back of his neck, thumb of his large hand wrapping halfway around his throat, and says into his ear: “He is my lover. _You_ are my pet. That will never change.”

 

Anders’ shoulders drop as he loses tension he hadn't been aware of. He leans into the touch, glad he stayed.

 

Hawke releases him before pouring the wine one-handed.

 

Fenris enters the room, a moment too late. Fenris is wearing his leather pants, his leather jerkin, and his smirk. Anders tries not to stare at the patterns on his upper arms. He’s going to be seeing a lot more of those tattoos tonight. Fenris accepts his glass before he sits facing the door, one bare foot tucked up on his chair’s seat, knee supporting his wine arm. Fenris watches Anders pace as he takes a sip.

 

“You’re over-dressed,” Fenris comments dryly.

 

_Anders kneeling on the tile, naked except for his collar._

 

At Anders’ sharp look, Hawke intercepts: “You should remove your extra armor.” Hawke waves his wine glass at an empty stand next to Fenris’ armor.

 

“Of course.” Anders walks to the stand and removes his boots, armor, and coat. His robes and leggings remain. The tiles are cold against his feet.

 

Fenris and Hawke make small talk, pretending not to watch him. “The price of swords is increasing lately. Fenris, have you noticed an increase in quality, as well?”

 

“I’m not particularly in the market, so I haven’t checked.”

 

“True, your Sword of Mercy does outrank them all.”

 

“Even if we found a better sword, I might use it anyway just for the irony.” Fenris is walking a line with that comment. Politics is a taboo subject in Hawke’s house, but if he starts in on Magisters again –

 

“Excuse me. Anders, would you like some wine? Fenris found an excellent Antivan red.”

 

Anders smiles. “I’ll certainly give it a try.”

 

Hawke hands Anders the third glass, buckle rattling in his other hand as Anders settles into the empty chair, back to the door. He inhales the spicy-cinnamon scent and takes a sip. The red is not too sweet, with notes of fruit and a dry finish.

 

Anders tilts his head at the collar.

 

“Hawke, we’re not just going to drink wine, are we?”

 

“Sorry, Anders, we have to talk first. It’s been years, and Fenris needs the details of our arrangement. All three of us need the chance to make changes.”

 

Anders feels a sudden surge of anger.

 

“I don’t want to talk. That’s why I’m here, Hawke, so I can stop thinking for a while.” Sibilant whispers still nag at him.

 

“We have to start on the same page.” Hawke sips his wine. With no response, he forges ahead. “All right, starting with the basics. Anal, blowjobs, hand jobs, rimming, all good?”

 

Fenris grunts an affirmative, but Anders makes a dismissive noise.

 

“Anders?”

 

“Yes,” Anders snaps.

 

“All right.” Hawke runs a hand through his hair. “You say you don’t want to think. What makes your brain turn off?”

 

Anders glances at Fenris, then back at Hawk’s hand. “That collar.” Anders doesn’t bother hiding his pleading tone. Justice urges him – _don’t waste time here, hurry back to the clinic, hurry to the Chantry_.

 

“What do I do to you when you’re wearing my collar?”

 

The way to stop that whisper is to answer. Anders takes a breath, ignores what he can.

 

“Make me submit. If I am not in control, I can’t change anything. Justice can’t do anything.”

 

“What are your limits, mage?”

 

Maker help him, Fenris is asking questions now, too.

 

Hawke interrupts before Anders can answer. “We haven’t started yet. We use names until the collar is on.”

 

Fenris is a rebellious minion. He glares at Hawke. “Fine. Anders. What are your limits?”

 

“No blood. I don’t want to accidentally tap into—” Anders shivers. “No blood.”

 

“Leave your gauntlets off, Fenris.”

 

He grunts softly in acknowledgement. “Pain? Humiliation?”

 

“Yeah, Fenris, all good. I guess not too much, too fast, but Hawke can read me pretty well.”

 

“Marking?”

 

Anders is finally glad he is not wearing the collar yet. “Nothing visible.”

 

“You wear enough clothing for two: that shouldn’t be hard.” Fenris jerks a chin at the armor stand, smirk playing at his lips. Two layers of armor plus robes.

 

“You’d _think_ ,” Anders grumbles, shifting.

 

Hawke coughs.

 

“That’s why we talk like this. You wanted it, at the time.”

 

Fenris blinks a few times at Anders, apparently remembering something from years ago.

 

“That stupid scarf! You said you were cold!”

 

Anders blushes. “Hawke got my neck.”

 

“Hawke!”

 

“I thought he’d like showing them off! This is why we talk _outside_ the bedroom now! Time to move on!”

 

Fenris makes an exasperated noise, and Anders smiles.

 

“I won’t bind you. Is that all right?”

 

Anders nods.

 

“Anders is very good at following orders,” Hawke adds.

 

Fenris looks mystified.

 

“And this is something you want?”

 

Anders nods again, shifting in his chair and glancing around for something to distract him from Justice.

 

“I need to hear you say it, ma— Anders.” Something taps Anders in the gut. It might only be the second time he’s heard Fenris speak his name. Why is that important?

 

And there it is. The distraction he’s been looking for. Anders looks Fenris in the eye, agitation vanishing.

 

“I want to follow all of your orders.”

 

Fenris is always moving. When they fight together, he looks around, aware of everything on the field. During this conversation, his wine glass has been moving ceaselessly. His eyes have been hopping between Anders, Hawke, and the door into the room.

 

Now Fenris freezes, shivers a bit.

 

“Sweet Andraste, that’s hot.” Hawke shrugs when both Fenris and Anders turn to glare at him. “What? It is!” Fenris and Anders exchange looks across the table. For a second, they might be about to jump into a nest of giant spiders on his orders. “Alright, is there anything else anyone wants to try tonight, or that anyone does not want?”

 

“Besides no spiders?” Anders couldn’t resist.

 

“What?”

 

“Anders, don’t derail him. I’m covered.”

 

Anders nods. “Can we get on with this?”

 

Hawke shakes his head. “Yeah, I need your safe words.”

 

“Jester.”

 

What, really? Not that Anders’ is better. “Wiggums.”

 

“And Ketojan. Once means pause, repeated means end everything.”

 

Hawke has been holding the collar this entire time. Now he smiles, turns it over in his hands. The black mabari collar has a strong buckle in the back and a D-shaped ring in front. He has the attention of his audience.

 

“When Anders is wearing this collar, he’s not Anders anymore. He’s my pet, my plaything.” Hawke _finally_ stands next to Anders’ chair. Anders stands, turning his back to the fire. Hawke settles the collar around Anders’ neck, where it rattles soothingly. As he speaks, he buckles and checks it in precise movements. “Pets don’t talk unless they are asked directly or unless it’s their safe word. Good pets follow their commands, and bad pets are punished. I will share my pet with you.” Hawke looks at Fenris, whose golden eyes are dark. “I take good care of him, and I expect you to do the same. Are we agreed?” Hawke’s warm hands hover over the leather, waiting to tuck the tail of the buckle into place.

 

“Agreed.”

 

“Of course.” This is why Anders is here. He’s glad Hawke still remembers the rules.

 

Hawke completes the last few motions and drops his hands to his sides. The feeling of the collar around Anders’ neck is familiar; the rough leather, the weight of it, the chill where metal brushes his skin. Anders doesn’t suppress the urge: he kneels, fully clothed, at Hawke’s feet. Fenris hisses in a breath. The hard tile presses hard on his knees through leather. He rests his hands on his thighs and looks at the floor, relaxed and submissive. Justice stops whispering. Anders nearly sobs. It’s been so long since he’s been free.

 

Hawke tugs on the back of his collar, and he stands, eyes lowered. To his right, Fenris downs the rest of his wine, sets the glass on the wooden table. He gets up as Hawke says, “Time to go upstairs.”

 

Anders waits for Fenris to follow Hawke, and then follows Fenris up the stairs and into the bedroom. He closes the door behind them, but it nearly kills him to turn back and see Hawke kissing Fenris.

 

What is he doing. His ex and his ex’s new lover are here; they are obviously into each other, fine without him. What if he stops. What if he says his safe word and grabs his things, goes home, has a good wank, and calls it a day.

 

Then Hawke breaks off with Fenris, grabs the ring on the front of Anders’ collar, and plunders his mouth. Hawke tastes of dry cinnamon wine, and he smells of musk and leather and soap. He presses him firmly against the closed door. A tingling spreads from Anders’ balls, up his back; from his collar over his scalp. Hawke wraps his hand over the collar, halfway around his neck again, and says into his ear, “I missed you.”

 

When Hawke steps back, Anders’ eyes jump to Fenris. But he’s watching them hungrily. There’s no trace of anger, no doubt.

 

Hawke says, “Fenris. If there is anything you want my pet to do, command him.” He turns to Anders. “Pet, you will follow Fenris’ orders or you will give your safe word. For now, Fenris needs to know what I’m offering. Strip.” He gestures toward one of the straight-backed chairs at the desk. “Put your clothing on that chair. When you’re done, kneel like you did before, but facing away from the bed.” Hawke has authority in his voice, like when he sends them into battle.

 

Like he did before he took away this collar, three years ago.

 

Anders walks to the chair as Hawke and Fenris head for the bed and begins undressing as quickly as he can. Fenris drawls from the bed: “Slowly, Pet.”

 

Anders glances that direction, and his breath catches. Hawke still has all his clothes on. He's sitting behind Fenris on the edge of the bed, one thick thigh on either side, gripped in lyrium-traced hands. Fenris is wearing pants, but his shirt is gone. Hawke splays a hand against the tattoos, pressing Fenris’ back to his chest. Hawke is bent, doing something to Fenris’ neck, but Fenris is ogling Anders with quiet intensity. White tattoos disappear behind Fenris’ leather pants, which bulge in a way they hadn’t during their talk. Damn the Void, it’s been too long. Anders licks his lips and lets himself watch as he undresses. Slowly.

 

Hawke mouths a trail of affection up Fenris’ neck, over his jaw, and along the length of one ear. Intense longing floods Anders as he remembers what he pushed away three years ago: pushed until Hawke believed him, and left.

 

Anders focuses again on sliding his robes off over his head… gradually. Fenris groans, but Anders doesn’t look to see what Hawke is doing as he folds the robe. Only his pants left. Anders catches movement and glances up. Hawke is gathering cushions from around the room, piling them on the bed. Fenris hasn’t moved. He’s eyeing Anders from the end of the bed, stroking himself through his pants.

 

Anders swallows hard. He unlaces his pants, which relieves the pressure. He slides his pants and small clothes off, still slowly, bending over to hold them down and step out. Then he folds them neatly and sets them on the chair. As Hawke finishes with the cushions, Anders kneels again, back to the bed and looking at the floor.

 

The bed squeaks in a way Anders didn’t know he remembered. Anders’ imagination paints what Fenris and Hawke could do on the bed. What was on the list? The possibilities make his cock twitch, but something swims in his gut, too.

 

Instead, they start talking. About him.

 

“Fenris, now that you’ve seen the goods, do any ideas come to mind?”

 

“That skin is too perfect. I want to bite it.”

 

Anders imagines the sting of that.

 

“Make sure he’s ready. Also, he might want to resist. Have him sit in the other chair, like this.”

 

Anders cannot see what Hawke was demonstrating. Or is he pushing Fenris to the requisite position? His curiosity gnaws at him.

 

“Mmm. And tell him not to let go.”

 

“I want to see everything when you do.” Of course he does. Hawke likes to watch.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

Wait, how dressed are they? Are the tattoos exposed all the way down? No, Anders hasn’t heard the movement of any more clothing. Unless the movement on the bed masked it?

 

“Once you’ve marked him, we’ll use him. Don’t let him come, but take our pleasure.”

 

“What did you have in mind?” Fenris purrs.

 

Hawke’s voice becomes a little muffled as he turns away from Anders, demonstrating his idea.

 

“I want you here, and he will be between us.”

 

Fenris groans. Anders decides he loves the sound.

 

“When we’re done with him, we’ll decide whether he’s earned a reward.”

 

Anders definitely wants the reward.

 

“So,” Fenris says, “is it time to start?”

 

“Mmm, I think so.”

 

Still looking at the floor, Anders squirms.

 

“Poor thing, he’s been lonesome without us. You should end his… neglect.”

 

The bed squeaks again. He hears the wack! of a hand against leather, and Fenris cries out sharply in protest. A chair scrapes and clacks on the tile, but Anders keeps his eyes trained down. Fenris’ bare feet appear a moment later. During a split-second pause, Anders considers disobedience, but remembers Fenris’ hungry look as he undressed. At the tug on his collar, Anders rises to his feet, exposing his half-hard cock. Fenris leans in, says, “Good boy,” yanks the metal ring on the front of Hawke’s collar, and kisses Anders like honey and cloves, nipping his lower lip and pressing their bodies together. The thick leather of Fenris’ pants rubs raw between Anders’s legs with enough pressure to leave Anders panting.

 

Reward given, Fenris keeps a finger looped in the ring and pulls again, giving Anders no choice but to follow to the chair.

 

“Sit.” Fenris smirks. When he is settled, Fenris straddles his lap. A glance tells him Hawke is watching from the end of the bed, still fully clothed. The chair is set so that, from the bed, Hawke sees them both in profile. Before he can gather more detail, Fenris grabs his chin and turns it roughly to look back to him. Then he gives a half-smile and a glint in his eyes, dropping his chin. _Danger._ No: six years of arguing, but never turning their weapons against each other. Fenris takes Anders’ hand in one hand, elbow in the other, caressing the arm as he does. The leather of his pants creaks a little as he pushes the elbow up, hand on the back of the chair behind his shoulder. “Hold.” Anders grabs the top of the chair. Fenris does the same to the other arm. “Don’t let go. Wrap your legs around the chair, too, and don’t move them.” Anders tucks his feet behind the front legs of the chair.

 

“Tighter, Pet,” says Hawke from the bed. Anders shoves his shins under the chair, preventing any movement from his knees down.

 

His arms are like blinders, but he’s aware of Hawke’s eyes on them. Fenris’ head drops low enough that he can set his lips on his chest. He murmurs, “You really need something more… interesting here,” then scrapes his teeth gently along Anders’ chest. It feels nice but not better than the cloven-honey kiss, or even the strain in his arms. He’s not allowed to talk…

 

Anders yawns into his left elbow. When Fenris looks up, pissed, Anders smirks. Hawke laughs like someone landed a particularly low blow at the Hanged Man. Fenris’ eyes glint: challenge accepted.

 

“You asked for it, Pet.” Then he bites his right shoulder _hard_.

 

The pain shoots through Anders. Anders grips tight to the chair and bucks against Fenris.

 

“Eyah!” No _fucking_ way he’s saying ‘Wiggums’ now.

 

Fenris hushes him, licking and sucking the bite. The pleasure of that is more intense than either of the kisses he’s been granted tonight, and he moans with it.

 

“You like that, do you?” The next bite is a gasping blend of pleasure and pain, followed by soothing lips. Fenris murmurs something unintelligible against his skin and the then Anders bucks against him again; this time as the hard bite feels like pure pleasure. Anders loses focus after that, loses track of how many times Fenris marks his skin, tormenting him deliciously and leaving him panting between bites. He becomes aware of Hawke closer, watching them play, sometimes cradling his head, perhaps touching Fenris. Once, Hawke’s arms wrap around Fenris, fingertips where his teeth meet Anders’ skin. Anders would do anything they ask. He’s glad he can’t speak: can’t beg for orders.

 

He knows what they want: They want to use him, deny him relief from this frustrating pleasure, and it sounds too good. He can’t tell them he doesn’t deserve this.

 

When Fenris has traced a dotted slash from his right shoulder, diagonally across his chest to his lowest left ribs, Hawke says, “That’s perfect,” and Fenris climbs off. Anders is still gripping the chair with hands and feet, panting as Hawke nibbles and says something in Fenris’ ear, sending him to the bed.

 

Hawke walks behind Anders, leans over, and says close and low, “You can let go now. Stand up.” Then Hawke steps to one side, feeling his arm, stretching and rubbing fingers to shoulder. Then he switches sides. Anders wants to say he doesn’t need it, but the touch feels good and he can’t find the will to object. Once Hawke is done with both arms, he tugs on the D-ring in the front of his collar – far more gently than Fenris. Anders stumbles for a step or two before his legs sort out this walking shit. Hawke supports him by the collar, carefully. He leads Anders past the fireplace to the left side of the bed, then onto it. Anders stretches his right hand out to brush the curtain at the foot of the bed on the way. The soft wool is a warmth in his chest.

 

Hawke’s cushions cover half the bed. They are piled highest against the headboard, then slope down to about midway. Fenris is sprawled on the far side of the bed. His head is propped on his right arm, curving him like a bow.

 

Hawke says, “Kneel here, facing the foot of the bed.” The position Hawke indicates is in the center of the bed, still on the extra cushions, but not by much. Anders resumes his submissive pose, giving Fenris a good view of his back and ass.

 

“Now I want to bite him again.”

 

“I said I would share, I didn’t say you could have him all to yourself.” Hawke shucks his pants, but leaves his shirt on. Then Anders feels the bed move as Hawke moves to his side, knees wide and stable on the soft cushions.

 

“Hold still unless we move you.” Anders’ breathing speeds up as Hawke’s fingernails trail slowly down his back and lower. He whines, just a little, when Hawke’s fingers spread over half his ass, splaying into the crack.

 

“Oh, he’s ready. Well, almost ready.”

 

Hawke lifts Anders, other hand on his shoulder, tipping and pushing him forward. His arms fling forward to check his fall. Because of the cushions, his elbows land lower than his knees, putting his ass awkwardly high in the air. He holds the pose.

 

“Fenris, you forgot something. I told you to take care of my pet, but he’s not ready for what I have in mind.”

 

“Sorry. I can prepare him, if you prefer.”

 

“Tease him a bit while you’re at it.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Hawke sprawls on the cushions to Anders’ right. A cork pops next to the bed to his left. He glances that way, but Hawke drawls, “Eyes over here, Pet.”

 

Anders turns back to witness Hawke stroking his cock. Anders licks his lips, imagining that solid length sliding into his mouth, down his throat.

 

“Good boy. You will not take your pleasure until I allow it.” Anders nods. Then Hawke watches Fenris.

 

Watching Hawke watch Fenris is like catching fish by feel. An oiled hand he can’t see slides up Anders’ left thigh and down the crease where the thigh ends, then wraps around Anders’ cock. He gasps as it hardens again, straining into Fenris’ unmoving hand. Keeping eyes on Hawke is difficult: his body wants to buck. It’s worth it for the look on Hawke’s face. Anders’ hips twitch forward, but he was told to hold still. A slippery finger from Fenris’ other hand glides lazily over the sensitive cleft of his ass and its opening, up and down. Anders shivers with the effort of not pressing back against that finger or forward into the hand. Hawke’s head tics back as his breath catches, fist wrapping around his own cock. Fenris presses around the opening, rocking Anders forward into his other hand. The rush of pleasure cracks Anders’ control, and his whimper pleads.

 

He knows his release is still a long way off.

 

Fenris inserts the first slick finger, stroking several times before adding the second. Anders savors the stretch around the opening, widening, straining and building his pleasure. Fenris slides in and out of Anders, spreading fingers apart to stretch him. Fenris controls the speed and his touch on Anders’ cock, pushing him higher but keeping him from coming. All while Hawke continues to stroke himself, watching and taking pleasure in this sweet torture. When Fenris removes his hands from Anders, he gasps in frustration.

 

“Sit up, Pet,” Fenris rumbles.

 

Anders obeys, sitting on his heels, this time widened and panting to be fucked. There’s the sound of leather being removed and the oil bottle again, but Anders is still staring at Hawke.

 

“Yes, Fenris,” Hawke moans, eyes glazed and free hand roaming over himself: when it gets there, his hand cradles his balls roughly, then slides up his cock. Anders burns, wanting that touch again: Fenris’ hands or Hawke’s, it doesn’t matter anymore. He reads Fenris’ position in Hawke’s eyes and the weight on the bed.

 

Fenris arranges cushions and lounges behind Anders, cock hard and slick against the crease of his ass and legs sprawling past his knees. He glimpses the tattoos on Fenris’ legs. Anders catches his lower lip between his teeth and whines, waiting for what Fenris does next. He must have cleaned his hands; he lifts Anders’ obedient ass and scoots a little more, balls brushing the arches of Anders' feet. Then he places his left hand on the collar to draw Anders down to rest the tip of Fenris’ slippery length against his opening.

 

Anders is still kneeling, watching Hawke, arms loose between his legs. He _will not_ touch himself.

 

Fenris moans as he pulls on the collar to slide Anders over his cock. Anders _feels_ the lyrium tattoos glimmer. The bed quakes and he realizes he closed his eyes, arching back against Fenris’ hand. _Shit._

 

He opens them again to find Hawke standing in front of him, gripping the canopy rails above, shirt hiked up, cock at eye level.

 

“Take it,” Hawke growls.

 

Anders can’t resist a concerned whimper. Fenris’ hips twitch behind him.

 

“As much as you can. Now, Pet.”

 

Anders doesn’t need more encouragement. He’s wanted Hawke’s cock in his mouth since he walked in this house. Longer, if he were honest with himself. He grabs Hawke’s hip for balance and slides the hard length past his lips, teasing the tip with his flattened tongue before taking it deeper. Fenris moans. Hawke, frustratingly, backs off, sliding out again. Anders can’t follow without losing Fenris, so he wraps his arm around Hawke’s hips to pull him closer.

 

Hawke grunts. “Let go if you need out.” Anders grips tighter.

 

Hawke is pinned, gripping the rails above for balance and panting. Fenris’ hand is still warm on the back of Anders’ collar. Anders needs movement, right the fuck now. He inches forward onto Hawke’s cock as far as he can, then sinks back over Fenris. Then Anders repeats the motion and hums. Maker, this is good. And yet Fenris is not – quite – hitting the sweet spot the way he could. Anders picks up the pace gradually. Both of them are at his mercy, groaning and glowing and straining inside him. Fenris pushes his head forward further than he thought he could take, making him swallow more of Hawke’s cock. Clutching those hips, Anders fights hard _not_ to touch himself as he chokes, then drops his ass back onto Fenris’ hips with a slap, again and again.

 

Anders looks up at Hawke. Their eyes meet. He’s so close. The pet slides his thumb into the crease of Hawke’s ass, but he only grazes the opening when Hawke comes in his mouth with a loud, wracking groan.

 

Anders tucks his head lower and pulls himself up to accept all of it, swallowing every drop, neck working under his collar as Fenris groans and comes behind him, clawing once, stinging down Anders’ back. Hawke’s hand replaces Fenris’ at the back of the collar, pulling him in.

 

Anders shakes, skin singing, reveling in their blending moans but not allowed to follow them.

 

When he is spent, Hawke stumbles to Anders’ right and collapses on the cushions. Fenris gathers Anders and sandwiches him between them. They settle with Fenris and Anders on their sides, nested like spoons. Hawke curves toward both of them, nose-to-nose with Anders, one arm buried between the cushions under them.

 

Anders doesn’t move, but he savors every tingling nerve. He lets the pleasure and frustration swell and build with every languid movement against his skin. His balls begin to ache when Hawke mutters against Anders’ forehead, “I’m having trouble moving. Our pet has been very, very good.”

 

Fenris speaks into the skin above the collar, where small hairs prickle.

 

“That’s a little unfair, isn't it?”

 

“Completely. Next time, our pet should come first. Less work for us.” Hawke’s free hand skims over Anders’ skin, stimulating already overwrought nerves. Anders can see it: two bodies on him, forcing him to come first for their convenience. _Fuck._ “But tonight, perhaps our pet should be rewarded.”

 

Anders whimpers and trembles, trying not to move.

 

“Oh, yes,” Fenris groans into Anders’ ear, nearly making him come. “He should _definitely_ be rewarded.”

 

###

 

The Next Day

 

 

No shit, there we were, patching up after a pretty nasty fight.

 

‘No, Hawke! Don’t,’ Broody hisses halfway across the battlefield.

 

Blondie ignores him. Which is fine with me, since I’m benefitting from his healing skills. Swords _are_ meant to do damage, I guess. I just wish they wouldn’t damage _me._

 

So Hawke saunters over and _pokes_ Blondie in the ribs, low on the left side. The icy sound of healing stutters in my ~~leg~~ gut wound, and for some reason, Blondie looks at _Broody_ as he flinches. Broody looks like he wants to dive under the nearest rock. That’s when I realize these two have been ignoring each other all day. No crazy banter about mages and templars. No dirty looks. No looks, no words at all. _That’s_ why it’s been so quiet.

 

‘Hawke,’ I tell him, ‘sometimes you are an asshole wrapped in an enigma.’

 

Hawke, of course, walks away laughing.

 

‘What in the Fade was that about, Blondie?’

 

Blondie shrugs before he says, ‘Who knows, Varric? It’s Hawke.’ He _smiles_ and finishes his work on my near-deadly sword wound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke doesn’t have the benefit of the internet or much (if any) community. He makes some mistakes that result in two issues:  
> 1) this situation could be seen as dub-con for Anders, though I hope I’ve written it in a way that makes it clear Anders would consent even if Hawke had done everything right.  
> 2) Anders is unexpectedly very uncomfortable when they first get to the bedroom, due to an issue that no one thought of. Hawke fixes it quickly, but Anders will need to bring it up later. 
> 
> Again, because it’s Thedas not Earth, Hawke uses the collar to help Hawke and Anders get into their Dominant and submissive roles. By Hawke’s rules, these roles apply only when the collar is on. They do not use it as a symbol of commitment, per se.
> 
> Huge thanks to [buhnebeest](http://archiveofourown.org/users/buhnebeest/pseuds/buhnebeest) for being an awesome beta!


	2. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... they've got to talk, if we want to see these three together again. On the upside, they talk about sex!

Hawke wakes, collar in hand, when Fenris asks brusquely, “What is it, Mage?”

Hawke feels Anders’ smirk on his skin. “I was wondering when the real Fenris would show. I have my answer. Thank you.”

“You weren’t complaining about the real Fenris last night,” he purrs smugly.

“That was for Hawke, not you,” Anders snaps. _Oh, for fuck’s sake._ Fenris glares. Hawke feels that on his skin, too.

Hawke refuses. “Are we back to this?”

They startle, and he huffs a sharp laugh. “Good morning. Can we talk mind-blowing sex instead of this sniping bullshit? Much better way to start the day.”

“What were you expecting, Hawke?” Anders grouses.

Fenris points out, “You did take the collar off—ugh!”

Hawke sits up, dumping both onto the mattress. _Cannot herd cats on an empty stomach._ “Play nice. I’ll see if Orana has breakfast ready.” He hops up and stretches thoroughly as two sets of eyes appreciate his hard-earned muscles. He spins to catch them, and his laugh fills the room.

Anders throws a pillow at him. Hawke catches it, tosses it back, grinning.

“Ass,” Fenris grumbles, smirking.

Hawke slaps one hand over each cheek, catching their eyes again. “Exactly!” Then he throws on loose pants and trots out. He finds Orana, and she fetches breakfast.

When he gets back, his men are far apart on the bed, wearing pants and uncomfortable silence. _Maker’s hairy arsehole. Well, at least they’re covered. No point shocking the servants extra._ He leaves the door open behind him.

The housekeeper brings a huge laden tray and sets it on the corner of the bed. “Thank you, Orana.”

“Of course, ser. Will there be anything else?”

 _Drop the servile demeanor?_ But he knows too well by now that won’t happen with a simple request. He sighs.

“No, that’s all for now.”

Hawke settles at the foot of the bed, and Fenris helps move the tray where Anders can reach. The trail of bite-marks is stark against Anders’ chest, but Hawke shrugs it off. Anders could have covered if he minded Hawke’s servants seeing, and Fenris is right: they look damn good.

Hawke pours tea. They’re lounging and comfortable except that silence.

“All right, we need to talk,” Hawke starts.

“Do we?” Fenris blurts. “Anders seems to think last night can be set aside with that damnable collar.”

Anders throws Fenris’ words back in his face: “You weren’t complaining about that damnable collar last night.” He sneers around a bite of pastry.

“Shut up,” Fenris rejoins, and Hawke derails that argument.

“Neither of you complained. Can you _both_ understand _that_ much?”

Fenris squints at Hawke, waving a slice of cucumber. “Why push this?”

“Look around this bed.” His tone makes it a joke. “Remember last night?”

“Hawke,” Fenris growls warningly.

“Don’t ‘Hawke’ me.” He shakes his bread at Fenris. “If we don’t talk, someone will mess up.” Hawke reaches for the thick spreadable cream. “I want more mornings like this”—he waves the dull knife—“ _and_ nights like last night.” Hawke slaps the cream on his bread. “So, am I alone in wanting a repeat? Maker forbid, any regrets?”

Anders glances anywhere but them for about three heartbeats, then snags chunks of cheese and bitter olives. Fenris chomps his bread and honey. _Come on, boys, I’m not a mind reader._ But neither will risk vulnerability this early. Hawke fights a surge of pessimism.

“Let’s talk about last night. I’ll start.” Hawke drizzles honey over the cream and eats the whole mess dreamily, searching for words. “You were both—it was—amazing. I was hopeful, but the reality was spectacular. It was fun to watch you together… the feedback was intense during the sex. Everything Fenris was doing, I could feel through Anders.” Fenris flinches, and Anders glowers. Hawke sighs. “I think that covers it.” He finishes his bread. _Who to pick on?_ “Fenris,” Hawke asks fake-sweetly, “how was it. Keep in mind I saw your face.”

_Hawke coming loud. Anders breaking that pleading eye contact to swallow everything. Fenris, tongue flicking out, pumping into Anders, reveling in his frustration. He groans, hand down Anders’ back, arching into the cushions._

“My face? What was on my face?”

“You weren’t looking at me when you came,” Hawke teases. Anders’ eyebrows twitch.

“I was… in a way,” Fenris equivocates.

“Not helpful. Explain exactly what you mean. To _Anders_.” Hawke pops a piece of cucumber in his mouth.

Fenris picks a few more bits from the tray before he turns to Anders. “I was… watching your neck. Under the collar. Watching-watching you swallow.” _Sweet maker. This means he wants a repeat, too._ It’s like Hawke’s won a coup.

Anders’ eyebrows rise now. “That was enough to…” he gestures with some cheese.

“That was enough,” Fenris confirms before hastily tacking on, “enough to tip the balance.”

“All right.” _Cat number two._ “Anders. Did it work for you?”

Hawke watches him chew. If Anders doesn’t want to come back, he’ll say he hadn’t gotten what he needed here. He’ll stay away. Words batter the back of Hawke’s teeth. _Tell me you’ll stay. Tell me you’ll come back. I’ll make it work. I don’t want to lose you again._ But this choice belongs to Anders.

“It-it was good. It worked.”

Hawke shrugs internally. _It’s a start._

“Bit of an understatement,” Fenris grumbles.

“What, you’re in my head now?” Anders snaps.

Fenris smirks. “Hawke saw my face, but I _felt_ you come.”

_Hawke growling “Come now, pet.” Anders, arching back into Fenris worrying his ear between his teeth with intense concentration. Hawke stroking the mage through his orgasm. Anders shaking, gasping pleasure, and Fenris alert to every vibration._

By the shock on Anders’ face, the same memory just assaulted him. Hawke winks and Anders smiles sheepishly.

“All right. We’ve established that no one was faking.” Both of Hawke’s men smirk. “Fenris, what was abso-fuckin-loutely the best moment of last night?” He picks a flakey cheese pastry next. _How did Orana fit this damn tray through the door?_

“Hmm,” Fenris considers. “The orgasms were amazing. Yours, mine, his.” Fenris twitches his chin at Anders before addressing him. “The best moment, though, was when you were spent, relaxed. Your trust in us, or at least in Hawke. I wanted to protect you, never let you go.”

Anders blinks. “And the moment’s past now?”

Fenris looks away, gaze catching on the small red elfroot bloom displayed in a gap between the plates. “I won’t lie.” Fenris grabs more food.

“That makes no sense.”

Hawke smiles. “Makes sense to me. Anders, your trust is incredibly hot. Watching everything become good because of what we do. Protecting you, giving you what you need. It’s thrilling.”

Fenris’ eyes lock on Hawke. He’s singing a new verse of the Chant Fenris already recognizes as truth.

“That’s a lie. Fenris can’t more than tolerate me here.”

 _Wait, what?_ “Damn it, Anders,” Hawke growls, “haven’t you been listening?”

“How did you convince him? What did you promise to-to watch him do those th-things to me?” Anders is losing it.

“Shit.” Hawke leaps up, shaking the tray, to plop down and gather Anders in his arms. Fenris appears on the other side, pulling Hawke closer to shelter Anders.

“Anders”—

“Shut up, Fenris. I asked Hawke a question.” His shoulders jerk like a hiccup.

“Anders, I swear I promised nothing but what we did.”

He turns and punches—no, Anders can’t swing here—presses Fenris’ bare shoulders. At least he talks:

“Why? Why you? Isabela I could take, or Varric. Merrill would be better! You and your tattoos and pain and your Magister. Did you know I treat sword wounds constantly?” Anders shoves his fists against Fenris. “Fucking templars stabbing apostates, or _suspected_ apostates. Yesterday’s missed the vital… I’ve lost… but Danarius would have done worse to you. I’m _glad_ you crushed his throat. I _hate_ you killed a Magister. Why _you_? Why’d Hawke fall in love with _you_?” His head falls as he presses back into Hawke. Fenris’ grip on Hawke keeps him close.

“I’m _not_ the only one Hawke is in love with.”

 _Fenris knows?_ But Hawke can’t deny it. He nods Fenris to continue.

“Hawke was still in love with you when we got together. I hoped it would disappear, but that was… selfish. It didn’t. He loves you.”

Anders shakes. “I deserve none of it.”

“You didn’t kill that mage, Anders,” Fenris whispers.

“No. Hawke stopped me.”

“Hawke stopped me, too. My sister breathes.”

“He won’t always be there, Fenris.”

Hawke wraps his arms around both. “I hope I will. I want to be. I love you both. Maker, you _both_ deserve love and happiness.” He tries to kiss both heads of hair, but he can’t reach Fenris. “Damn it.” He kisses Anders’ copper hair again on impulse. “Anders, please?”

Anders turns to glare, but his heart isn’t in it. Hawke smiles back, hoping his love shows plainly. Anders swivels and kisses a confused Fenris on his white hair. “From Hawke,” he says. Hawke sighs as they slowly relax into a pile.

Anders’ stomach rumbles. “This is nice, and I love you too, Hawke, but can we eat?”

“Of course.” _He loves me!_ _All the misunderstandings, all this time… and he still loves me._ Hawke returns to his place, grabs a spicy piece of sausage. Anders devours his bread, dabbing at honey spilled during their cuddle. Fenris is spreading thick cream and jam on bread. _He loves me, and Fenris knows it, and he’s not running._

Hawke reaches over and squeezes his knee through his thick leather pants. “Okay?”

Fenris says wonderingly, “Okay,” and returns Hawke’s smile. Anders watches the exchange without comment.

Hawke sits up and considers the half-naked men in his bed. “Don’t get me wrong, I _would_ promise a lot to watch. Damn, you look good together.”

Their amused glances evoke the moment Hawke believed this might work, downstairs last night.

Fenris asks, “Oh? What exactly would you promise?”

“What would you want? Both of you.” Hawke pops sausage in his mouth.

“That sausage you’re hogging, maybe?” Fenris flicks his hand at the plate, stacked with slices.

“More olives wouldn’t hurt your cause.” Anders smiles and nods to that part of the tray.

Hawke passes the dishes, chewing and feeling like his grin could split his face.


End file.
